


Fragments

by AutisticWriter



Series: Mental Illness Headcanons [25]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Ableism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Doctor (Doctor Who), Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Doctor, Autistic Third Doctor, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dark, Dissociation, Drinking, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Third Doctor, Heavy Angst, Hugs, Intersex, Intersex Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, Kissing, LGBTQ Characters, Meltdown, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, One Shot, Other, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Stimming, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Trauma, Triggers, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 10:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11205909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: As Alistair’s mental health spirals out of control, he feels helpless. But it turns out that the Doctor has similar problems, and Alistair begins to wonder if he might not be the only one struggling.





	Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during and after the events of my fic 'Binary'.
> 
> Please read the tags and beware that this fic is very dark and potentially triggering.

It was twenty years ago, but the memories haven’t faded.

The trauma is there, as strong as ever. He tries to suppress the memories, pushing them right to the back of his mind and forcing himself to think about something, anything else, but it doesn’t quite work. At any moment, he can suddenly be reliving everything, pain and panic threatening to shatter his calm exterior.

Even when the flashbacks are minimal, his sleep is cut short with constant nightmares, terrifying reconstructions of... of _it_ plaguing him, waking him up in a mess of tangled sheets and choking sobs. The nightmares mean he never gets enough sleep, which explains why Alistair spends most of his life in a state of slightly groggy sleep deprivation. Sometimes he falls asleep at his desk, but sleeping in the daytime doesn’t keep him safe from the nightmares.

He does his best to avoid everything that might trigger a flashback, but sometimes they are unavoidable. And then he is left trying to keep himself together in public whilst he’s breaking inside.

\---

One time, it happens in the Doctor’s lab. Alistair walks into the room to find the Doctor and Jo studying some sort of alien gizmo they picked up somewhere, trying to work out if it might be dangerous. But that’s to be expected; almost every day at UNIT there is something in the building that might be dangerous and is almost certainly alien. The thought that the gizmo might be dangerous occurs to Alistair, but he isn’t that concerned after all of the aliens he has dealt with before.

He walks over to the desk, where the Doctor is sat, their shoulders hunched forwards as they stare down their microscope. The Doctor doesn’t react to his presence (he isn’t offended, knowing how focused the Doctor can get when they’re studying something that interests them), but Jo smiles and says hello. And then she walks past Alistair to get something for the Doctor, and he gets a waft of her perfume.

_Pinning him down. Hands all over his body. Looming over him. Huge staring eyes. A sadistic smile. Violation. Pain. Terror. That smell._

And then he gasps, stumbling slightly. His heart races, images of the flashback still flashing through his mind even though it’s over. Cold sweat breaking out all over his body, Alistair tries to calm his breathing, but the fear won’t leave him. He starts to tremble, and only manages to stop his legs wobbling by locking his knees out. Alistair tucks his hands behind his back, hoping Jo won’t notice the tremor in his fingers.

“Are you all right?” Jo asks, walking towards him.

She’s too close. He can smell it again. That perfume. It’s a trigger, tapping deep into the parts of his memory he has tried to delete so many times and bringing awful memories back to the surface.

“Brigadier?”

It’s Jo, he tells himself, but the panic won’t listen. It’s Jo Grant. It’s Jo Grant. It’s Jo—

“Excuse me,” he says, somehow managing to keep his voice calm and formal.

Without saying anything else, Alistair walks out of the room. He keeps it together until he reaches the men’s toilets, shutting himself inside a cubical. It is only then he lets himself break down. He sinks to the floor, tucking his knees up to his chest, grasping at his short hair with trembling hands. It’s a panic attack, something he is all too familiar with yet never seems to get less horrible to experience. He rocks himself backwards and forwards, reminding himself of the Doctor when they get stressed or panicked. Memories flash through his mind, but Alistair cannot fight them.

_“Get off m-me!” he cries, panic in his slurred voice._

_He cannot fight her, being forced to watch helplessly as she violates him. He may be drunk to the point he can’t move, but he feels everything. Absolutely everything._

_“Shut up!” she hisses, digging her sharp fingernails into his sensitive skin._

_He winces, feeling blood dribble across his scrotum. His eyes are watering, and his voice is weak and trembling as he stutters, “P-Please stop...”_

_“Stop whining!” she snaps. “You’ve got a hard-on, for fuck’s sake!”_

_And, to his absolute horror and despair, he knows she is right. She has stimulated his penis to the point he has an erection. But it feels disgusting and he wants more than anything to be free and to run as far away from this horrible woman as he can, but he can’t. He’s stuck here._

_“ You’re being pathetic. Just enjoy yourself!”_

_“Stop...”_

When it’s over, Alistair gets up. He feels shaky, but he forces himself to hide the tremor in his legs as he leaves the cubical. At the sinks, he straightens up his uniform and washes his face, trying to hide the evidence that he has been crying. His hands shake as he pulls his beret back on, but the tremor stops when he clenches his hands into tight fists.

And then goes on with his day like nothing has just happened.

\---

Ever since Jo changed her perfume, the flashbacks have become a lot more frequent. Alistair cannot avoid her, which means her perfume triggers him several times a day, every day. It is hell, but he doesn’t know how to avoid the situation.

After all, Alistair can hardly tell her to change her perfume. That would be ridiculous. And, of course, he would have to tell her why she can’t wear that perfume. And he can’t do that; he has never told anyone, and he isn’t going to start now.

\---

He isn’t with it. Alistair feels dazed and spaced out as he goes about his duties at UNIT HQ, barely processing anything. He somehow doesn’t feel quite real, even though he knows he is real and he’s here and he’s alive. He is almost like an aeroplane on autopilot, going about his normal duties but not really concentrating, not really engaging. He’s numb, spaced out and confused. But he cannot say he _hates_ being so space out, because when he is out of it like this he doesn’t feel as anxious, and any break from his near constant fear is all right with him.

“Brigadier?”

He forces himself to stop staring blankly at his desk, and looks up. The Doctor is stood in the doorway.

“Are you all right?” they ask. “You looked like you were having a good old daydream.”

The Doctor chuckles, and Alistair copies him. But he has to force it. He has to force himself to do everything, otherwise he would just spend all day staring at his desk, spaced out to the point nothing seems real.

\---

In his sleep, Alistair rolls onto his back. His eyelids twitch rapidly, his brain deep in dream sleep. But then he groans, his face tensing as a hideously familiar dream invades his sleep.

_He’s pinned down, too dazed and dizzy to move. He can’t be this drunk after two pints. Did she put something in his drink? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything other than the fact he’s in a stranger’s flat and she’s pinning him to a bed and he’s scared and nauseous and blind drunk._

_“What y-you doing?” he slurs._

_She smiles, and it’s a terrifying smile that makes him want to vomit. He tries to push her off, but he can barely move._

_“I’m having some fun,” she says, and she rams her tongue into his mouth._

_He splutters, but she holds his head down and continues to force the horrible kiss. Her mouth tastes weird and all he can smell is strangely sweet perfume._

He groans, his head thrashing from side to side on his pillow. His jaw tightly clenched, Alistair’s legs start to move, kicking under the blankets.

_Nausea overwhelms him. He heaves and she pulls away quickly._

_“You better not throw up on me,” she says, and it sounds like a threat._

_She doesn’t kiss him again. He’s almost relieved, until her hands land on his waist. Giving him that horrible grin, she unbuckles his belt and tugs his trousers down._

He lets out a cry, his fists tightly clenched, his legs thrashing around. His breathing is rapid, his sleeping face anything but peaceful.

_“P-Please... don’t...” he mumbles pleadingly, so pathetic and weak that she laughs._

_And then her hands are touching him, groping him, her fingernails scratching his skin until his eyes sting with tears. And then there are real tears, because this is really happening, and he can’t escape and he’s so scared and—_

Alistair awakes with a start, drenched in sweat. He forces himself to sit up, taking deep gasping breaths in an attempt to calm himself down. Tears leak from his eyes, but he doesn’t wipe them away. He is most definitely used to this, but that doesn’t make the experience any less terrifying and horrible.

When the panic is dying down, he gets out of bed and spends the rest of the night sat in the armchair, his eyes fixed on the clock and his heart racing. He wishes that the Doctor could be here with him; but they aren’t, so he just has to cope as well as he can as he spends the night awake, alone.

\---

He’s intersex. He found out today that he has XXY chromosomes. The discovery made him very anxious, and he still isn’t sure why. He often finds himself worrying, but can’t seem to remember what made him anxious. His anxiety spiked especially when the Doctor told him how men with XXY chromosomes tend to have small testicles. But why did that worry him so much?

He finds out later. Alistair is in the bath when he gets a flashback. He feels it coming, but that doesn’t lessen the impact. And then he’s back in that room, twenty years ago, terrified beyond description.

_His underpants are halfway down his thighs. He tries to shuffle backwards, but his head smacks against the headboard. She sees this and grins that horrible grin, and her hand trails up his thigh until—_

_“No! Don’t d-do that!”_

_“Try and stop me,” she says, and she laughs as he lets out a whimper._

_She tightens her grip, squeezing his genitals so hard he lets out an agonised cry. He tries to push her hand away, but he can barely move, let alone coordinate his limbs enough to push her away from him._

_Her hands grope him, her fingers invading and prodding and squeezing his most intimate parts. It feels disgusting, and he wants to be sick._

_“P-Please stop...”_

_He screws his eyes up. She slaps him across the face._

_“Look at me!” she snarls, and she twists one of his testicles until his eyes fill with tears, pain unlike anything he’s ever felt flooding through his body. “Look at me.”_

_Too terrified to disobey, he keeps his eyes open. He keeps his eyes focused on her face as she untwists his testicle, and the most disturbing smile crosses her face._

_“You’ve got fucking tiny balls,” she says, and she laughs. “You freak!”_

Alistair jolts slightly. The bathwater is lukewarm and his stomach is churning with nausea and fear. He has no idea how long he was out of it, but it could have been a long time. Either way, he certainly remembers now.

The memories of it always come back to him this way, in fragments that flash across his brain with little warning, until he eventually remembers most of what happened. And this certainly explains why he felt so scared. Even before his discovery, he was already being mocked for being intersex – and for the person to mock him to be that... the woman who assaulted him makes him feel even worse.

Tears dribble from his eyes and he dunks his head under the water, attempting to hide the tears even though no one can see them. For a brief moment, he considers holding his head under for a very long time... and then he surfaces and takes a deep breath, longing for just one day when his brain doesn’t give him suggestions for how to kill himself.

\---

Things get so bad that Alistair finds himself turning back to something he hasn’t used in a long time: alcohol. In the few years after... the assault, he drank far too much in an attempt to numb the constant fear and to make himself sleep, because he was too anxious at night to get any sleep. It was far from healthy, but drinking kept him going for several of the worst months of his life. It was only when his mental health stabilised (things weren’t perfect but he could cope much easier; joining the military helped a lot, as it gave him a distraction and something to focus on in life) that he managed to break the habit.

But now... Everything is so difficult. He can’t cope. He’s crumbling, just like he did back when he was a young man, struggling to accept, let alone cope with, what someone had done to him. So it doesn’t surprise him when Alistair when he pours far more than a cap full of whiskey into his night time mug of milk. And he may fall asleep in minutes for the first time in years, but he is still awoken by nightmares so terrifying that he curls up in a ball and sobs, longing for the pain to stop.

Soon he is drinking at work, tipping whiskey into his mug of tea and sometimes taking sips straight from the bottle. He drinks enough to numb himself, but not enough to affect his work. And he keeps the whiskey in the locked draw of his desk and eats a lot of mints and tries to convince himself that he isn’t falling back into the alcoholism that claimed him for most of his early twenties.

Yes, denying his problems really has become a staple of Alistair’s life. He would try to stop doing it, but that would mean accepting that he has a problem. And if he does that, he’s just terrified that his whole life will fall apart.

\---

He cries a lot. It must be something to do with his mental state, but Alistair cries a lot more than anyone else he knows, and over far more trivial things. Not that anyone ever sees this, of course. He only lets himself break down in private, never letting himself show his unstable emotions in front of others. His exterior is one of calm, formal competence, even when he’s dissociating or close to panicking or on the verge of tears.

He sometimes wonders if the Doctor can see through his exterior; to be honest, part of him wishes they would. But, if the Doctor does, they don’t mention it. So Alistair keeps his emotions bottled up even when he is alone with the Doctor, because he wants their relationship to stay the way it is; it may be unhealthy to not share his feelings inside their relationship, but it just seems easier this way (even though it actually isn’t).

\---

He and a Doctor have been in a relationship for eight months, yet Alistair cannot let himself share a bed with the Doctor. He doesn’t want her to see his night time drinking, nor have to experience his terrifying nightmares from the outside (because they must be almost as disturbing to observe as they are to experience).

So he puts it off, and the Doctor looks a bit disappointed – though not nearly as much as Alistair is. Because he is disappointed in himself – he hates himself – because he’s so broken and damaged and he just wishes he could be normal. He knows the Doctor isn’t normal (she’s autistic and struggles with a lot of social issues on a daily basis), and wouldn’t want to be either, but it is Alistair who is standing in the way of them having a normal relationship. And he wants a normal relationship; he just doesn’t know if he can ever open up about what is wrong.

And if he did open up, would the Doctor still like him?

\---

“...How is he, Sullivan?”

“He’s still unconscious, sir. He had a brief lucid period about an hour ago, but he lost consciousness again before I could talk to him.”

“I see...”

His throat raw, his mouth dry and his head pounding, Alistair drifts into consciousness. The voices are those of Sergeant Benton and Surgeon-Lieutenant Sullivan, but he doesn’t know who they are talking about. Everything aches and he longs to fall asleep, but he forces himself to stay awake and listen to their conversation.

“His EEG is normal, and his heart rate is stable. I was concerned that he might have been injured during the stomach pump, but a scratched throat aside, it went without a hitch. We’re keeping him hydrated, and monitoring him closely in case of any changes...”

“That’s good. Make sure to keep me posted of any sudden changes.”

“Righto, sir.”

Alistair opens his eyes, having to squint as the light makes pain shoot through his eyes and into his head. He feels dreadful, as though he has the worst hangover in the world. But he can’t remember what might have happened to him. He spots Benton and Sullivan stood at the foot of his bed... and then he realises that he is in the sick bay. How did he end up in here? What happened to him?

Benton sees him looking at them and nudges Sullivan. “Look.”

Sullivan turns his head and smiles. He approaches Alistair and leans right over him—

_Looming over him. Pinning him down. Hands—_

“Sir?” Sullivan says, straightening up as Alistair shields his eyes (hoping they will think he is just covering his light sensitive eyes and not notice the tears in his eyes). “How are you feeling, sir?”

Blinking rapidly, Alistair removes his arm and squints up at Sullivan. His heart pounding, he silently longs for Sullivan to not do that again. Sullivan was lucky that Alistair feels so ill, otherwise he might have been punched; people leaning over him sets off his ‘fight’ reflex horribly. But despite not having punched Sullivan, Alistair is left reeling from the flashback, his heart beating so rapidly he can feel his pulse beating in his neck.

“Awful,” he mutters, his voice slow and hoarse. Alistair closes his eyes, hoping that might make his headache lessen; it doesn’t, but he keeps his eyes closed.

“Yes, I suspect you will,” Sullivan says, a faintly sympathetic tone to his voice. “I can give you some painkillers if you would like.”

“Please,” he mutters, wishing his headache would go away.

“Righto, sir,” Sullivan says, walking away from the bed. His footsteps are almost painfully loud as they clatter against the tiled floor, and Alistair groans.

“Sullivan?” Alistair says, still not opening his eyes.

He hears Sullivan come back over. “Yes, sir.”

“What happened to me?”

He swallows, the action hurting his sore throat. Everything aches, and he hates it.

“You don’t remember, sir?”

Alistair opens one eye, and is disturbed to see Sullivan looking apprehensive. “Remember what?”

“Well...” Sullivan says, pausing. “The Doctor found you in your office, sir. You’d consumed far too much alcohol and were close to developing alcohol poisoning. They rushed you here and I had to give you a stomach pump. You’ve been unconscious for the last six hours.”

“What?” His voice comes out as a whisper.

He starts to remember something, memories of hunching up on the floor of his office, sobbing as he gulped down whiskey straight from the bottle, longing for the flashbacks and panic attack to end. And then... haziness.

He feels his cheeks flush. How could this have happened? He feels like such a fool. So this is why he feels like he has a hangover; because he actually does have one, a dreadful one at that.

And then he feels a twinge of anxiety like a knife twisting in his stomach, because he surely must have worried everyone – especially the Doctor. After all, he doesn’t really care about himself, but it makes Alistair feel sick to think of all the stress and worry he must have caused. He really is a dreadful commanding officer; how can he be expected to command everyone at UNIT when he can’t even keep his own brain from failing him?

“Your painkillers, sir,” Sullivan says, and Alistair makes sure to lie still as Sullivan inserts a needle into the back of his hand. There’s a sharp jolt of pain, but Alistair doesn’t care... and part of him thinks that he deserves it.

\---

When Alistair awakes again, he feels a million times better... physically, that it. His hangover may have lifted, but his anxiety hasn’t. He just cannot believe what happened to him. How did he end up nearly killing himself from drinking so much alcohol? What does everyone think of him? What does the Doctor think?

The Doctor!

Alistair’s eyes snap open. He tries to locate a nurse or a doctor, needing to ask someone where the Doctor is. He has to see them.

“Hello, my dear fellow.”

He turns his head, ignoring the pain that throbs inside his skull. The Doctor is sat at his bedside, their face tense and tired. They smile, but Alistair sees the fear behind their smile.

“H-Hello, Doctor,” he says.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.”

“You certainly have,” the Doctor says.

For the first time, Alistair notices that the Doctor is bouncing their leg and fiddling with the cuff of their frilly shirt. They’re obviously very worried about him, and Alistair wants to kick himself for making the Doctor worried.

“What happened, Alistair?” they ask, actually using his first name, which they usually only use when they are alone.

Their question is vague, but Alistair knows exactly what the Doctor means. He sighs.

“Please let’s not talk about this now,” he says, and, thankfully, the Doctor nods. “I promise I’ll tell you soon. Just not now.”

He is almost certainly telling the truth – but part of him hopes that the Doctor will forget about this conversation, because he really doesn’t want to talk about it.

\---

He gets put on sick leave. None of the doctors really understand what is wrong with Alistair, but their guess that he’s snapped from too much pressure is nearly correct. He gets signed off of work, and sent home for two weeks to recuperate.

He gets visited by several people over the two weeks, but he would prefer to be left alone. Thankfully, no one mentions the incident that led to him ending up in the sick bay, even though everyone at the base must know by now. But when Benton and Yates pop by after work, all they do is hope he gets better soon and give him some biscuits. Alistair tries to enjoy seeing them, but the experience is marred by the obvious concern and pity in their eyes.

Alistair spends most of his sick leave on the sofa, trying to sleep and watching the television when he inevitably cannot sleep. On the first day of his leave, the Doctor threw out all of his alcohol, so now Alistair doesn’t even have any whiskey to help him get to sleep. He is so tired all of the time, but he can barely sleep for an hour before the nightmares start. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to work, because he knows he is far too exhausted to be capable of anything remotely productive.

Following their usual routine, the Doctor comes around every day after work at HQ, and they spend the evenings huddled up together watching the television. But it isn’t the same; just like Benton and Yates, the Doctor is clearly worried about him. But unlike Benton and Yates, the Doctor decides to voice their worries.

“Alistair, my dear chap, can I ask you a question?” they ask one evening as their head rests against Alistair’s shoulder.

“It depends what the question’s about,” he says without looking away from the television. He isn’t actually watching the programme, but he still keeps his eyes focused on the television screen.

“Well, it’s actually about how you ended up in the sick bay.”

“Then, no, you can’t ask me a question,” Alistair says, well aware of how childish he sounds but not really caring.

The Doctor sighs and pats his arm. “I know how stressful this must be for you, Alistair. But you did promise to talk to me about it... and I’m worried about you.”

Hearing a twinge of fear in the Doctor’s voice makes Alistair’s stomach cramp with guilt. He sighs and shuffles away from the Doctor slightly, tucking his feet up onto the sofa.

“You don’t need to worry, Doctor,” he says, and he is telling the truth; his mental state may be appalling, but the Doctor shouldn’t have to worry about him. He doesn’t want anyone else to have to deal with his baggage; it’s his problem, and he doesn’t want to worry the Doctor unnecessarily.

“I do, though,” the Doctor says, rubbing their hand against the back of their neck. “I care about you.”

“I know you do. But there’s no need to worry about me. I just... struggled a bit. You see, I sometimes drink too much when the stress of everything gets to me. Of course, I didn’t mean to drink that much, but I’m m-much better now I’ve had all this time at home to rest. Is... is that all right?”

He stares at the Doctor, trying to read their face. He hopes that the Doctor believes him; and he was partially telling the truth. The Doctor smiles, and it looks genuine... at least, he hopes it does.

“Of course, my dear fellow,” they say, and Alistair thinks there’s a doubtful edge to their voice (although he might be imagining it). “Maybe we can work something out so you have a healthier way to cope with stress than binge drinking, though.”

“Yes, that sounds like a plan,” Alistair says, relieved that the Doctor isn’t asking him any more questions. Although he doubts the Doctor can find him any healthier coping mechanisms when they don’t know the real reason why he drank so much.

\---

When Alistair returns to work, he finds himself being treated differently. Everyone seems to be walking on eggshells (a figure of speech the Doctor hates and cannot understand) around him. People speak in a softer tone when they talk to Alistair, as though they don’t want to upset him. It really does seem like everyone at UNIT thinks he is a ticking time bomb, and they need to treat him carefully in case he cracks and ends up back in the sick bay. And whilst that might be a somewhat accurate way to describe him, Alistair knows the way everyone talks to him won’t make any difference. Of course, he is grateful that his fellow soldiers are concerned about him, but he would rather they weren’t so _obvious_ about it.

The Doctor has managed to remove all of his whiskey bottles from his locked draw (ze probably used that sonic screwdriver thing of zirs), which Alistair discovers when he goes back into his office for the first time. Again, he is grateful that the Doctor cares about him (and doesn’t want a repeat of last month’s trip to sick bay), but Alistair doesn’t know what he is going to do next time he needs to numb himself; without his whiskey, he can’t help but worry that he might break down in front of everyone. He probably won’t, but that doesn’t stop him worrying.

\---

Alistair and the Doctor spend most of their evenings doing nothing more than cuddling, chatting and watching the TV, but sometimes they engage in the more romantic side of their relationship. He is doubtful that he will ever be able to have sex with someone without having massive flashbacks, but kissing is fine (provided he doesn’t get someone’s tongue rammed into his mouth, because that would cause flashbacks too). And the Doctor, being asexual, doesn’t really care about that sort of thing anyway, so their purely romantic relationship works well. And Alistair is extremely grateful, because he doesn’t feel like he is letting the Doctor down.

But, as he said, kissing is fine. He loves to kiss the Doctor. The Doctor loves the sensory element to kissing, and Alistair loves the intimacy of just sitting together, their feet entwined, kissing softly and sweetly for what seems like hours. It’s beautiful.

One evening, over a fortnight after Alistair went back to work, they find nothing work watching on the television, so they decide to kiss instead. This time, they get a bit closer to each other, the Doctor’s hands rubbing circles in Alistair’s back, whilst Alistair runs his fingers through the Doctor’s fluffy hair.

Almost instinctively, they start to lean in one direction, until Alistair’s back is pressing against the sofa and the Doctor is laying almost on top of him. The Doctor smiles and kisses him again, and then they pull back, just staring at Alistair. But then the Doctor puts their hands on Alistair’s shoulders, and—

_Hands pinning him down. Looming over him. Hands—_

And he panics. His heart pounding, he lashes out, needing to be free, to get away, so glad he isn’t drunk and can actually move. He has to get away. He needs to escape. As he lashes out, his hand hits the Doctor’s face and knocks them off of the sofa...

And then Alistair shuffles upright, gasping for breath, and he sees the Doctor hunched up on the floor, panicking and rocking back and forth, their hands in their hair, their chin bright red where...

He hit them. He injured the Doctor. He can’t...

And then everything goes hazy. Time seems to skip, because the next thing he knows, Alistair is hunched up in the bathroom, vomiting into the toilet. He slumps against the toilet as he throws up the contents of his stomach, his eyes watering, saliva dribbling from his mouth. His heart palpitates so much he wonders if he might have a heart attack – and maybe he should, because life is absolute hell.

Once he has stopped being sick, he stumbles back into the living room. The Doctor is still on the floor, but is now smacking their hands against their head. He wants to stop them, to comfort them, to apologise so much for hitting them, but he knows he cannot touch the Doctor while they’re like this. Their skin is sensitive and he doesn’t want to cause them any more pain.

He cannot believe what he did. He knows it was because he thought the Doctor was _her_ , but he still can’t accept it. He hit the Doctor.

Unable to do anything to help the Doctor, Alistair back on the sofa, struggling to keep himself from sobbing as he mumbles futile phrases like “it’s all right, Doctor,” in an attempt to do _something_ to help them feel better, despite knowing all too well that absolutely nothing is all right.

After what could be thirty seconds or thirty years to Alistair (he’s not with it, and that means he cannot really tell how much time has passed), the Doctor starts to calm down. They stop hitting themself, and their breathing gradually slows until they don’t seem to be panicking any more. The Doctor then turns their head and looks at Alistair, and he sees red, swollen marks all over the Doctor’s tear stained face. Seeing that makes him want to vomit again, because he knows he caused this to happen to the Doctor.

He offers the Doctor a hand, and helps them to get up and sit on the sofa.

“Are you all right?” he asks, immediately regretting asking such a stupid question. “I mean, how do you feel?”

“Well, I ache and I’m very tired, but that’s usual after a meltdown,” the Doctor says, their voice hoarse and slightly shaky. “But I feel better now it’s over. How about you?”

“What d-do you mean?”

“You smell like vomit, Alistair,” they say. “What made you vomit?”

He sighs. “I was just worried about you. I’m so sorry I made you have a meltdown, Doctor.”

“You didn’t mean to, Alistair. And I obviously panicked you somehow. You wouldn’t have hit me unless I scared you.”

“I still hit you, though,” Alistair says.

“Yes, but I panicked you. And while we’re on the subject, can I ask you why that scared you so much, Alistair? Because that wasn’t a remotely normal response; you looked like you were going to have a panic attack.”

“I did,” he mutters. “Look, Doctor, something happened to me that means being pinned down like that makes me very, very anxious.”

The Doctor sighs sadly and pats his arm. “I understand. Thank you for telling me.”

“D-Don’t you want to know the rest of it?” he asks, wondering why the Doctor isn’t prying.

“Not unless you want to tell me. I don’t want to force you to tell me anything. But if you do, I promise I’ll listen.”

Alistair lets out a shaky sigh. He’s been trying to keep his past from the Doctor for as long as he has known them... but he finds himself wanting to tell the Doctor about it. And the Doctor sounds like they really want to know... without the fear of rejection, thinking about this has become much easier.

“I, I want to tell you,” he says, staring down at the patterns on the carpet.

The Doctor pats his arm again and gives him a reassuring smile. “As long as you really want to.”

It is more of a need than a want, but Alistair still nods his head. “I do.”

“Take your time.”

Alistair does, taking a deep breath as he wishes his heart rate would slow down. And then... and then the Doctor becomes the first person in the world to know about the source of his trauma.

“I... I was sexually assaulted when I was twenty one,” he says, forcing his words out. He hears the Doctor make the smallest gasp, but he can’t bring himself to look at their face. “She pinned me down when I was semi-conscious and too intoxicated to do anything, and... and...”

He feels sick, so sick. He grits his teeth, fighting back the wave of emotions longing to flood from him.

“You don’t have to elaborate,” the Doctor says, patting his arm.

“I want to. I... I need to tell you.”

He cannot keep hiding this, keeping his trauma a secret inside his mind. He has to tell someone everything, and that person might as well be the Doctor.

“I was in a pub in the evening, having a pint of beer. I saw her come over to the bar, but she didn’t speak to be. But she must have spiked my beer with something stronger, because I was suddenly very drunk and groggy. And took me home when I was too drunk to speak coherently, and took me into her bedroom, and...”

The Doctor is rubbing his back, the movement oddly soothing. He glances at their face; the Doctor looks horrified, but is clearly trying to keep themself calm. Their legs are bouncing up and down violently.

“And sexually assaulted you,” they say, finishing his sentence.

But that’s part of the problem. One of the worst fears and doubts he has had ever since it happened is: did she actually assault him? Deep down he knows she did, yet part of him likes to taunt him, to remind him that he became aroused when she sexually assaulted him. And he has to tell the Doctor that as well.

“B-But... I got an erection,” he says, his voice starting to tremble. “I ejaculated. I...”

_With a horrified sob, he ejaculates. Tears dribble down his face. He feels disgusting, weak and worthless._

_“See,” she says, smearing Alistair’s semen across his face. “I knew you’d enjoy it.”_

“I, I enjoyed it!”

It comes out as a shout, a spluttering sob escaping Alistair’s throat as he hunches forwards and wraps his arms across his chest. He shuffles onto the floor, curling in on himself as though he is about to be attacked. He wants to vomit again, his heart beating so fast he can feel it in his neck. It is as though, in that moment, twenty years of guilt and stress and fear are all pouring out of him.

The Doctor joins him on the floor and pulls him into a tight hug, rubbing their hands against his back. Alistair presses his face against their shoulder, longing himself not to cry. He can’t cry; he’s a soldier, for goodness’ sake.

“Listen to me,” the Doctor says, their voice soft yet firm as they whisper into his ear. “Listen to me, Alistair. You did not enjoy it. You had an automatic reaction to a stimulus. Your personal feelings had nothing to do with it.”

Alistair pulls away. He wants to believe the Doctor, but...

“But—”

“But nothing,” they say, one hand stimming with their cape as the other rests on the small of Alistair’s back. “Listen to me, Alistair. You’re a penis owner. Surely you know how active the things are. You can get an erection from the fabric of your underpants, or a soft breeze. My dear Alistair, you have no control over getting an erection. It means nothing. And, yes, I know you ejaculated, but answer me this: how did you feel when you ejaculated? Did you feel wonderful like so many people do during an orgasm? Or did you feel horrified and disgusted and absolutely repulsed by what she was doing to you?”

Alistair stares at them, struggling to process what they just said. He’s amazed. The Doctor actually understands. They don’t agree with the hateful part of his mind that is always telling him he wasn’t actually assaulted. They know the truth. They believe him.

“The, the latter,” he stutters, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.

“Exactly,” the Doctor says, giving him a soft, sad smile. “Exactly. That doesn’t sound like enjoyment to me.”

They stay like that for quite a while, the Doctor just holding him as Alistair leans against the Doctor, weak and shaking. He still can’t quite believe that this has happened; not only has he told the Doctor about the sexual assault, but the Doctor still loves him. All of his fears and doubts were wrong, because the Doctor doesn’t think any less of him, they don’t hate him, and they absolutely still love him.

And then the Doctor pulls away from him, but only to put their arm around Alistair’s shoulders instead. They clear their throat, the swollen lumps on their face starting to bruise.

“I think you have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Alistair,” they say. “You have lots of the symptoms, you know.”

“What is it?” Alistair asks. He is vaguely aware of the name, yet he isn’t sure what PTSD actually is.

“It’s a mental illness. About a third of people who go through a traumatic event develop it. It has lots of symptoms, but some of the ones you obviously have include flashbacks, nightmares and panic attacks. You also have a few triggers, which are what causes flashbacks, panic attacks and other horrible symptoms. You went through something horrible, Alistair, and this is how your brain responded.”

“This all makes so much sense,” Alistair says, finally understanding what has been happening to him for the last two decades of his life (and also relieved to know that he isn’t just a weak person, because this happens to a lot of people who go through similar things). “How do you know so much about PTSD?”

“I have it too. Mine’s from the emotional and sometimes physical abuse I got as a child for being autistic. Remember how someone covering my hand with their own gives me a panic attack? Well that’s because of my PTSD. It’s a trigger for me, just as someone pinning you down is for you.”

Alistair nods, smiling weakly. He hates to think that the Doctor also has a mental illness because of what some hateful people did to him, but he is also relieved to know that the Doctor understands what feeling like this is like. He isn’t alone.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his face pressed against the Doctor’s neck. “Thank you, Doctor.”

The Doctor starts to rock back and forth, the action moving them both as they hug each other. It’s very soothing, and Alistair leans against his wonderful partner, letting them rock the pair of them in their tight embrace.

“You’re welcome, my dear fellow,” the Doctor whispers back, kissing Alistair’s forehead.

And as the Doctor cuddles him tightly on the living room floor, Alistair finds himself feeling the tiniest bit hopeful. Because he has the Doctor, and they understand what he has been going through all these years, and, just maybe, he may be taking his first step on the long road to recovery.


End file.
